


Any Bullet

by Gilded_Pleasure



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Clydesharing, Cooking, F/M, How We Got There, It's For a Case, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Finale, Slow Burn, Two People That Love Each Other, food is love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-18 02:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16108586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilded_Pleasure/pseuds/Gilded_Pleasure
Summary: After Sherlock left the brownstone for the last time, heart shattered and life in ashes once again, he could only think of how desperately he needed to hear her voice.Three months later, Joan Watson visits London. Garridebs ensue. Sherlock wonders if he will have to further justify his reasons for making the choices he'd sealed their fates with; choices he would never regret. How could he?As if there existed any bullet, literal or figurative, that he would not throw himself in front of to spare her.





	1. Three Months

There was something undignified in feeling this kind of rising elation in his gut, Sherlock Holmes considered as he thumbed at his phone’s touchscreen and put it to his ear.

“Hey, Sherlock. My plane’s just about to take off, but you should really know, um... I _want_ you to know that I...”

Sherlock held his breath waiting for Joan Watson to finish her sentence.

“I have Clyde here with me.”

Sherlock frowned. “Watson, we _agreed_ that the service we chose for his safe transport was more than adequately-”

“I know, but when it came down to it, I just couldn’t bring myself to leave him with strangers,” she interrupted. “I won’t _know_ he’s safe unless he’s with me.”

Sherlock considered that he’d privately felt his own misgivings on that front more than once, and decided not to needle her further about her anxieties since they were shared. “You do realize this may create delays at customs,” he complained instead. “ _Considerable_ delays.”

“I know,” she said, unflappable. “But it’s been three months already, so what’s a few more hours?”

 _A torturous eternity_ , his heart echoed in answer to her matter-of-fact tone, but he managed to keep such unwise confessions behind his teeth for once. They’d already cleared Clyde’s ingress to the UK with CITES and DEFRA, although method of transport wasn’t a necessary disclosure for those forms. In the end, he had to admit that he was relieved that Joan wouldn’t be letting their little green chap out of her sight for the duration.

“You’ve added the substrate? The container is opaque?” he couldn’t prevent himself from asking.

“Yes, Sherlock,” she droned, but it came off almost affectionate. “I’m not gonna sabotage your turn for custody by upsetting him on the way, even if you _are_ already his favorite.”

His heart clenched, and he took a deep breath.

“I’ll be there to meet you after customs,” he said evenly.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s not like I don’t know how to find a cab.”

“I’d hate to bore you with a dissertation on the philosophic natures of human freedoms and moral obligations, but if you require a distraction from a heretofore undisclosed phobia, I could indulge you,” he remarked dryly, glad she couldn’t see the expression that didn’t match his teasing tone.

He glanced at himself in the mirror-backed, odious hutch formerly containing glassware that Mycroft had left behind, the one Sherlock couldn’t quite seem to get around to discarding. H’d ended up stuffing it with odds and ends, a few three-dimensional _objets d’art_ he’d been gifted with over the years, and some items Joan had shipped him after his largely unplanned departure from New York. Sherlock attempted to fiddle with one of the glaringly minimalist knobs of the glass doors on the front and tried to meet his own hangdog gaze.

“You’d _love_ to bore me,” Joan was replying, “but I’ll drop it if you promise not to.” She exhaled slowly. “We’re really looking forward to seeing you.”

“Mmmm.” The hum escaped without his permission. He cleared his throat and added, “As am I, you,” as succinctly as possible.

The silence thinned and stretched. At the precise moment it became unbearable, Sherlock rushed out “I’ll be waiting in arrivals at eight forty,” and ended the call abruptly. He turned away from the hutch and walked stiffly back to the countertop in the kitchen, which was crowded with odd sized butcher-paper parcels, so he didn’t have to suffer the ultimate ignominy of watching himself blush.

***

After Sherlock had left the brownstone for the last time, heart shattered and life in ashes again-although for the first time with conviction that he’d done the right thing by burning it down-he hadn’t made it 24 hours before calling Joan. Less than a week before absolutely requiring her opinions on the discrepancies between two eyewitness accounts via video chat. Ostensibly for a case. Obviously for a case.

He hadn’t announced his return to 221B to anyone. However, grapevines and gossip being what they were, it hadn’t been long before the flies of his former life in London had begun buzzing around at the stitched-together remains of Sherlock Holmes’ previous incarnations, now come to rest in a cluttered and untidy heap in his old flat. At least 221A had remained empty as well, and his attempts at brooding had remained relatively quiet, if not as anonymous as he would have preferred.

The amputation of Joan Watson from his daily routine remained to be immediately and viscerally endured every waking moment, much as he had expected it must, but that loss combined with being somewhere he definitively _used to live_ threw him even more off balance than he’d expected.

The first night had been the worst. Once he’d walked in and seen the amalgamation of ugly white furniture Mycroft had left behind glaring despite the last gasp of sunset fading as he approached, objects he’d arranged to have delivered here and then forgotten, even a few items that he remembered from his own days living here that had for some reason decided to reappear, he felt himself balk. It had almost been enough for him to turn on his heel, arrange for a hotel room, and perhaps call up one of the services whose numbers he used to have memorized for a suitable companion to assuage or at least distract from his misery.

Sherlock became aware with a sickening certainty that running from this moment in which his uppance had finally come would inevitably lead to making certain other phone calls, to arranging for specific deliveries that would guarantee forgetting his troubles. He didn’t exactly have a support network that could help absorb the consequences of that sort of impulsive decision here. Cursed with a new depth of self-awareness granted in part by forming meaningful connection with others, he was nonetheless alone again in their aftermath.

He took a deep breath and tried to still his shaking as he walked through the flat, trying not to look too hard into the corners. He pulled a chair away from the kitchen table, sank down into it and pressed his forehead directly to the table’s edge, staring down at his blank phone screen.

He needed to hear her voice.

Before his bout with post-concussion syndrome, he might have played one of his little games with himself, delaying the moment of gratification he knew would be inevitable. Pushing his consciousness to extremes had been a long-cherished habit, especially after the removal of substances to facilitate the process. Having had his brain act without his permission for an extended period of time, having it fail him at crucial moments, had slightly soured the appeal of pretending at self-denial.

Despite his surroundings, the comforts of self-delusion also fell away. He was faced with the Sisyphean task of carving himself into a new shape that would somehow be capable of occupying this space as a changed man, all while surrounded by reminders of his former beliefs and gaudy misbehaviors. In the presence of a concrete challenge, the prospect of once more convincing himself his pain and loneliness were actually boredom and ennui held equivalent appeal to crushing his genitals in a toilet seat. The luxury of deceiving himself seemed a distant memory, someone else’s unhealthy coping mechanism.

Muscle memory took over, saving him further self-recrimination. _Swipe-tap-tap._ He held the phone to his ear, still bent in half at the table, and listened to it ring.

“Sherlock!” The blessed voice crackling over the Atlantic. “Did you make it there okay? Are you in England? For real this time?”

“I have,” Sherlock mumbled, his odd posture making his voice sound nasal, congested. “I am.”

A moment of silence; Sherlock could see her in his mind, pulling the phone away a moment to check the time. “You must have literally just walked in the door,” she commented. “How… are you doing?”

“Poorly,” he admitted shortly.

He practically heard her decide not to start an argument about their current circumstances, for which he found himself absurdly grateful. He was feeling a bit too fragile on several fronts to justify once again his reasons for making the choices he had, and felt no regret at having made. How could he? As if there existed any bullet, literal or figurative, that he would not throw himself in front of to spare her.

“Do you need to find a meeting?” Joan inquired. “I’m sure they have a website where you can find something close to...are you at Baker Street?”

Sherlock exhaled in amusement. Or, he tried to; apparently he didn’t only _sound_ congested, so he sat up, peeling his forehead away from the edge of the table where it had sat long enough to leave what felt like a sizable dent. The light in the flat had gone from dim to nonexistent, but he wasn’t terribly keen to do much about it. He had every reason to believe the electricity still functioned, since he’d been paying the bill out of an account set up for that purpose for the duration of his absence. He just seemed to lack the motivation to stand up for the moment.

“I am,” he replied. “Considering London is hardly a backwater, I feel assured that every church basement from here to Whitechapel positively throngs with addicts, should the need arise to suffer in both anonymity _and_ company at nearly any hour.”

Sherlock cleared his throat a moment, swallowed postnasal drip.

“How fares Clyde?” he managed.

“Oh, he’s fine,” Watson replied casually. “I gave him one of your turtle pucks earlier. He made his way through half of it, then decided he wanted to munch on some turnip greens instead.”

“Could-” Sherlock’s throat closed. “Could you...check on him for me?”

“Sure,” Joan answered easily. “I have him in the kitchen right now.”

Sherlock hummed tonelessly in response. His eyes closed, and he imagined descending the stairs himself, the way the light would be at this time of day, the sun five hours more viable where she was than in his current position on the globe.

“He looks like he’s settling in,” Joan reported warmly, “but probably just for a nap.” Her voice changed as she addressed the tortoise. “I told you that would happen if you kept stuffing yourself.”

Sherlock felt a thin smile cross his face, heard achingly familiar sounds in the background.

“Making tea?” he asked weakly.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m filling the kettle. I already ate, so I’m just winding down and putting on my dong quai.”

He could practically smell the licorice root that had been added for flavor.

“Lin’s blend or yours?” he asked, for clarification.

“Oh, I switched over to Lin’s guy for pretty much everything last week,” she replied casually, and he mentally adjusted the fragrance he was imagining. “I don’t know how, but he makes even the worst ones taste tolerable. I could just take pills, but for some reason drinking the tea relaxes me.”

Sherlock stood, walked over to the wall and switched on the lights in the dining room. It seemed less terrible than it had 20 minutes ago, for no particular reason. Even the abominable white hutch full of mostly wine glasses he would never have cause to use seemed less of an imposition on his senses.

“Some evidence would suggest that dong quai is better absorbed after steeping,” Sherlock mused. “Of course, other studies suggest the same for tincture, vinegar infusion, or capsule, so perhaps it’s better to trust one’s own intuition in these matters, much as I am loath to admit. Biodiversity between individuals can hold its own surprises, after all.”

They spoke for a long while about nothing in particular, and Joan’s replies to his inquiries on anything pertinent to dealing with serious affairs were gently (and sometimes not gently) rebuffed. Sherlock swallowed as he realized the conversation, as well as Joan’s late afternoon ritual, was drawing to a close.

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock spoke into another silence that had stretched past the point of politeness. “I’ll find plenty of busywork for myself, not the least of which will be arranging 221B to my liking once more. My brother's abominable absence of aesthetic leaves just as much to be desired as ever.”

“Wait,” she said slowly. “Mycroft’s things are still there?”

“Where else would they be?” Sherlock replied flatly.

“Oh.” Joan sounded more surprised than she should have. Well, they’d both been under a considerable amount of stress recently. Sherlock had to admit he wasn’t exactly at his most observant, either, but she still managed to irritate him in the particularly piquant way only she was capable of. Even being annoyed by her divergent thought patterns was unnaturally soothing.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay for tonight?” she added hesitantly.

“Watson,” he began, then paused. “Once word of my return disseminates, I’ll have more asked of me than I am capable of, even leaving off tasks with which I am unwilling to aid. I’ll keep myself occupied with meetings and arrangements for disposal of the mess. In the meantime, I have an entire flat to refurnish and a father to avoid. I’ll...manage,” he finished, but his breath hitched.

“I will manage,” he repeated, exhaling slowly through flared nostrils.

“Okay. Well...goodnight, Sherlock,” Joan half-whispered.

Sherlock thumbed the call to an end without replying, and let the ensuing foreign silence grate his nerves into a shredded mess. He walked back to the hutch and opened one of the front doors, took out a wineglass and watched it shatter on the floor like a thousand universes of possibilities cut short, jagged chunks and near-dust alike scudding across the floor to rest in pieces under appliances and baseboards; more followed. He’d made his way through all but two of the glasses when the phone in his pocket vibrated. He tried to control his breathing for a moment before giving up and just taking out the horrid device, feeling unaccountably guilty.

A message, accompanied by an image. From Watson.

Sherlock scrubbed at his forehead with the back of his wrist, then placed his phone carefully on the table. Glass crunched, ground bumpily, skittered under his shoes as he crossed the floor, then fell away as he went upstairs to take a shower.

On the table, a flight itinerary for Joan Watson from JFK to Heathrow in three months’ time flashed white for a moment before the screen locked itself.

***

Three months later, Sherlock listened to the shower turn off upstairs as he tended to finishing the broth that had been cooking on the stovetop all day, that had cooled slightly during his absence to meet Watson at Heathrow. He could see Clyde slowly exploring the large enclosure on the table opposite, one of several luxurious tortoise havens he’d prepared in advance of his arrival. He checked the water he’d just put on to boil, took a deep breath and found himself walking over to the tortoise just as he heard Joan’s hair dryer start on the floor above him.

“Hello, old friend,” he murmured. “I hope your adjustment goes more smoothly than did mine, although the solitary inclinations of your species lends you the advantage. I’d have once said the same of myself, but here I am eating crow to the end of my days on that count.” Sherlock restrained himself from handling the animal; the new enclosure after his ordeal of air travel was more than enough stimulation for a creature whose brain was the size of his thumbnail.

“We deny ourselves the comfort of cliches.” Clyde’s heavy-lidded eyes blinked slowly and soothingly at him; the reptile’s well-cared-for nails helped him gain traction over the sand in his enclosure. “I wish I could say that I didn’t savor my own unexpected capacity for joy while I still had cause, but alas, appreciating happiness while I still had it did not reduce the impact of its loss,” Sherlock whispered bittersweetly.

He noticed the air had increased its humidity, and the fragrance of his own shampoo tickled his nostrils. He turned around with a pang as he registered Joan Watson’s lithe silhouette, clad in a pale printed shorts-and-shirt set, a short but oversized grey dressing gown thrown over. A perfevid sensation akin to relief poured through him like slow honey as he took her in, her eyes flashing darkest brown and reflective over wide, freckled cheekbones; the tips of her pale umber fingers peeking shyly from too-long sleeves.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you two,” she said kindly.

“Nothing of the sort,” he replied, arms held stiffly at his sides, tilting his head to watch how the light caught the frayed hairs that stood in a near-halo around her freshly blowdried crown. “Clyde and I shall have plenty of time to catch up with each other over the next few months.”

He stalked over to the refrigerator to retrieve the bowl of dough that had been resting for the past six hours and placed it on the countertop, then loosely floured the surface in preparation.

“Are you making bread or something? I thought I smelled a roast when we came in earlier,” Joan inquired idly, then “Wait, is this for me?” She sniffed at the contents of the no-longer-steaming cup Sherlock had set on the table 15 minutes earlier, and he nodded shortly. “It is,” he added when he realized she wasn’t looking at him.

“Is this my usual?” she asked, then cut her eyes at him; glared briefly.

“I may have retrieved a few items from your baggage to preempt the potential for irritation of the sort intercontinental travel is wont to incur,” he admitted as she sipped at her medicinal infusion.

“Is that also why the closet in the guest room is _preemptively_ full of clothes in my size?” she smirked over the rim of her blue glazed mug. “Worried they’d lose my luggage?”

“And shoes,” he added pertly, teasing out the dough into a rough cylinder. “The thought had crossed my mind, but my motives were a bit more complex.” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully as he twisted the dough out long, then folded it over itself.

“I was hoping you might join me in meeting a visitor I expect in the morning. It might be politic to present yourself as neutrally as possible, perhaps wait to disclose even that you are an American, so you can see how American-made clothing might give away the game. The reasons should present themselves quickly, but you may find your faculties engaged nonetheless. Only if you’re up for it, of course; jetlag may take precedence.”

Sherlock held the dough up above the counter in front of him, gave it a wave, and let it twist itself even more complexly under its own weight and momentum, then slapped it back down.

“Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on instead?” Joan griped amiably.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he retorted, then repeated the twist of the dough strands. This time he trimmed the end with the pastry cutter before dusting more flour over the piece he still worked. “Either way, the clothing is yours to do with as you will, or dispose of as you will if it doesn’t suit,” he added, knowing the latter would certainly not be the case.

“Are you making...noodles?” Joan guessed; correctly, as it turned out.

“I am. Tell me, Watson, how do you gauge your current capacity?”

“For noodles?” she replied with a grin. “I’d say bottomless, but...what’s the rest of it?” she added dubiously, eyeballing the stately and mysterious lidded stockpot as well as the salted water that had come to a merry boil a few minutes ago.

Sherlock felt a smile glow forth from some unplumbed depth of his soul, and he saw no reason not to let it show.

“I found Mycroft’s recipe for _lan zhou la mian_ in the wall safe. _”_

Mycroft had mentioned in both their hearing the recipe he’d purportedly had copied and smuggled out of the eponymous capital of China’s Gansu province at great expense during the late 1980s at least once. Sherlock had had his own doubts as to its veracity, but upon finding it sheathed along side other paper ephemera of his brother’s erratic existence, was impressed by recipe’s complexity despite .

“You’re kidding!” Joan goggled, then got up to walk a little stiffly over to the stockpot. “Although if what he said was true, it’s not _Mycroft’s_ recipe,” she added, shooting an admonishing glance his way.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I meant merely that it was the one he’d mentioned. Although despite his assurances, by definition this iteration of its instructions cannot be truly _authentic_ , considering these noodles,” he indicated the dwindling strands between his fingers, “are not currently being prepared in Lanzhou itself.”

Joan took the lid off the enormous stockpot to inhale its fragrance and her eyelids fluttered. “I guess we’ll just have to make do, then, won’t we?” she murmured. “ Did you seriously boil a whole chicken in here? And...what was it, a lamb’s liver?”

Sherlock gave the noodles stretched between his floured hands a few more calculated yanks and then came up beside her to toss them in the boiling water. He snatched up the pasta ladle and waited, poised for the moment they became solid enough to stir without destroying them .

“Goat’s liver, actually,” he replied, “beef blood, one half roasted femur and one half soaked in cold water for 24 hours, untrimmed beef flank, the chicken...would you mind retrieving the chili oil from that cupboard?” He indicated with his chin as he sprang into action, delicately swiping the pasta ladle to keep the fresh noodles from adhering to the copper bottom of the pot. She complied with a half-hidden quirk to her lips, her eyes shining with anticipation, and Sherlock had to clear his throat again as the rise of unexpected emotions threatened to strangle him. His eyes prickled alarmingly but he blinked rapidly to clear them, instructing Watson as to the location of the bowls, garnish, and utensils.

“I know what you can do in the kitchen when you actually _try_ , so it’s good these things are almost as big as my noodle capacity,” she grinned as she set the massive ramen bowls on the counter next to the boiling water.

“Shall I serve you?” he asked as the noodles neared their optimum texture.

Joan slapped her hands lightly on her bare thighs, waggled her head at him in that heartbreakingly wry manner she had when she was pleased, and slipped back over to the table, tucking her hair behind her ears as she sat. Sherlock quickly pulled the noodles from the water and ladled them into portions, added the clear broth laden with soft-cooked radish and meltingly tender beef, a dollop of bright red homemade szechuan chili-and-peppercorn oil, and a generous pinch of green herbs to each. He snatched up the utensils before walking back to the table to place a bowl in front of each chair.

Sherlock didn’t realize he’d been sitting motionless, watching her eat with messy gusto, until she eventually noticed and gla red at his bowl pointedly. He took the hint, picked up his spoon and sipped at the broth’s indescribable richness. Joan had a point, he supposed, although he couldn’t imagining going to even a fraction of the trouble for himself alone. As he bit through the springy noodles, he considered that his current habitual repast of algae-based smoothies (punctuated with takeaway curry), which he’d adhered to for the previous three weeks or so, had perhaps begun to pall. Slightly. Sherlock sighed in satisfaction and decided to make conversation after all.

“When I still consulted for Scotland Yard nearly a decade ago, I had reason to myself consult an elderly fellow named Nathan Garrideb, who then and still maintains the world’s foremost assortment of articulated avian skeletons.”

“He collects _b_ _ird_ bones?” Joan paused in her slurping to frown at him.

“The consultation was regarding determination of time of death,” he added obliquely, not elaborating although it was tempting to regale her with one of his more unusual cases of ritualistic murder and, even more novel, the subsequent ritual disposal of the body . “More to the point, he is also my current client, and I believe the potential victim of a rather pedestrian racket , the exact nature of which I have yet to _entirely_ determine,” Sherlock elucidated before slurping up another mouthful of the noodles, which seemed to increase in appeal the more he supped.

Joan swallowed thoughtfully. “So one of your old irregulars is getting scammed. I can see how you might take that personally,” she mumbled before stuffing a massive slice of beef into her mouth. She licked her lips and glanced at her now-empty teacup; Sherlock stood and turned to the sideboard where a large plastic jug of room temperature water he’d purchased stood and poured her a glass before returning.

“Oh, thanks,” she replied, her eyebrows raising. “So...is that who’s coming over tomorrow ?”

“Not quite,” he replied with a tight grin. “A few days ago, Nathan called me to request my assistance in locating anyone who shared his unusual surname.” Joan looked like she might object, but her mouth was full, so he continued. “Although not overtly jarring to the ear, the name turns out to be rather uncommon. Unprecedented, even, as I came to discover later. Nathan believed himself the only Garrideb known to exist until a man of middle age and naming himself _John_ Garrideb made himself known to him out of the blue, claiming to hail from Kansas.”

“So, what, is this the whole ‘long-lost heir’ con?”

“Apparently not,” Sherlock smirked, stirring his noodles around with his chopsticks and warming to the subject. “John Garrideb spun a yarn of yet a third uniquely named and coincidentally recently deceased man, christened _Alexander Hamilton_ Garrideb, also hailing from Kansas and whose estate totaled some fifteen million in assets static and liquid. Delighted at the discovery of another man unrelated yet sharing the same name, and having no heir himself, the real estate tycoon Garrideb wrote into his will that the more pedestrian John Garrideb might inherit - on the condition he found two other _additional_ Garridebs with whom to share the wealth, split into thrain,” Sherlock finished with a smug flourish of his utensil.

Joan burst out laughing, and Sherlock’s heart knocked wildly within him as the curve of her delicate throat corded with mirth. It seemed like a hundred years since he’d heard her express such simple joy, and he would have done anything to stay in that moment forever. He’d have done anything to make ten days last forever, which was how long remained until Joan Watson would return to her life, her family, her friends in New York.

“Alexander Hamilton _Garrideb_ ,” she groaned, wiping a tear from the outer corner of her eye. “ That ’s too good . Did Lin Manuel Miranda write a Pokemon musical?” She grinned. “Garridebs: gotta catch em all?”

Sherlock let his confused annoyance creep into his expression.

Joan scowled back at him . “It’s a musical, it’s been on Broadway for-” she sighed, waved her hand dismissively . “Nevermind. It’s just really unimaginative and topical, like he picked out grocery store magazine headlines and cobbled them together to run a scam on an old British guy who collects bird skeletons,” she mock- grumbled, amusement still writ in the creased skin around her eyes .

Sherlock shrugged. “I’d assumed a basic Nigerian scam, but apparently John Garrideb hasn’t requested a single dime from Nathan, nor food, nor shelter, or even ten dollars for petrol,” he explained. “Indeed, the purported Garrideb has spent considerably of his own money and effort in placing ads and making inquiries in certain circles as to the existence of additional Garridebs, which I was able to confirm in what limited free time I’ve had the past day or so,” he mused, shoveling a few bits of beef and radish into his mouth and chewing a little less patiently.

“Wait, so...did Nathan _tell_ this guy that he hired you?”

Sherlock swallowed his mouthful. “He did.”

“Okay. So _that’s_ who you’re expecting to storm in here tomorrow.”

“Just so,” Sherlock replied with a smirk.

Joan took her bowl in both hands and raised it to her mouth to drain it of the remains of broth, set it down heavily and sighed. Caught a belch on the backs of her curled fingers politely.

“I guess it might be interesting, then. Do you think he’s really American?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “Remains to be seen.”

Watson nodded, her eyelids looking a bit heavy. “I’m a lot more tired than I thought I’d be.”

“Then by all means, rest. It’s nearly midnight, after all.”

“Ugh, seriously?” She rubbed her eyes. “I guess my internal clock’s sorta thrown off,  here I am thinking it's still too early to be this worn out...”

 _Jet lag_ , Sherlock mouthed at her, widening his eyes dramatically.

She narrowed her eyes peevishly in response , but yawned when she opened her mouth.

“Fine, _fine_ , I quit ,” she grumbled, pushing her chair back and standing. “Have fun cleaning up.”

Sherlock slouched in place and stared down at his own bare, tattooed forearms balanced on his open thighs, exhaled in amusement as he noticed the dusting of flour that whitened his black t-shirt, the front of his trousers. He picked a bit of hardened dough out of the hair on the back of his hand and flicked it away into the darkened corner. His bare feet at least remained unscathed, and he wiggled his toes on the parquet floor. Joan still hadn’t moved past the threshold, however, and eventually he looked over toward her solemn figure, her back to the table. Her golden profile was slightly backlit as she leaned on the doorjamb, her glorious mane of dark hair flowing down her back. She didn’t turn to look at him.

“I’m really glad to be here,” she sighed, sounding exhausted beyond all reason. “Three months took a lot longer than I thought they would.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied dumbly. He scrabbled for words, but they skittered away from him and evaporated like drops of water on a skillet.

“I miss you,” she murmured quietly, her husky voice throbbing deep in his ears. Her hand slipped down the doorjamb, and she walked off to find her bed in the guestroom.

Once Sherlock Holmes remembered how to breathe normally again, he stood and began to gather their discarded bowls and utensils to begin the washing up with hands that trembled hardly at all.


	2. Three Garridebs

John Garrideb looked like nothing so much as a vaguely porcine baby in wig and mustache, Sherlock thought to himself as he gestured to the seat in front of his, although other signs pointed to a man of at least thirty-five, if not forty years of age. Despite the incongruously childish countenance, he was short and broad of shoulder like an amateur wrestler, although he professed to be a paralegal- or at least the social media profiles he’d created online claimed so. Sherlock was glad he’d taken the precautions he had, since although his pinkish features were arranged in a blandly pleasant expression, the eyes were surprisingly sharp and seemed to assess them both with shrewdly. His gaze wasn’t sharkish or offputting, however; this con man was practiced enough to bring his expression up to the eyes and come across relatively pleasant.

Watson, her sleep-tossed hair since smoothed and refreshed with a light product scented with orange blossom, was caparisoned neatly in one of the three piece suits he’d purchased. She’d chosen the warm autumn-grey he’d had tailored to her exact measure, the pale salmon dress shirt just visible at the collar, and a pair of smart black ankle boots. The black string tie and her loose, flowing tresses kept her overall appearance squarely at the peak of elegance and professionalism without seeming overly severe.

She had already seated herself in the chair a foot or so to Sherlock’s left. The solidity of her presence, combined with the nearly seven hours Sherlock had managed to sleep the night previous on account of the same, had acted as an incredibly restorative balm both to his constitution and his relative outlook.

“ _Mis_ ter Holmes,” his guest stated pleasantly enough in a flat, barely-there enough to be believable Kansas accent. “You look just like your pictures.”

Sherlock blinked, smiled thinly and nodded . “Mr. Garrideb. And what occasion might you have had to encounter a photograph of me?” Instead of taking Garrideb’s outstretched hand, he sat down and peremptorily gestured again to the chair opposite.

“Oh, well, I had a business trip to New York with the partner I was working for a few years back, maybe 2014?” The stolid man finally introduced his hams to the thinly-upholstered chair. “You caught some kinda serial killer or the other right around the same time. That was a pretty big story- they had a picture of you in the online article with the police captain, looking none too pleased to be there a-tall,” he replied amicably.

“A prodigious visual memory for serial killers and the faces of those who catch them, then,” Sherlock replied wryly, quirking one eyebrow a bit. “It’s been my understanding that those sorts of odious fellows often accrue a fandom of dubious moral fibre, but those are commonly women, for some counterintuitive reason- I assume you’re not of that ilk? Or, perhaps... you haven’t arrived here with an unsolicited tip regarding Jack the Ripper one hundred and thirty years late?”

Garrideb laughed shortly. “No, indeed. More like, my friend Nathan hired you to look into _me_ , I think,” he said, a bit of animosity coming into his eyes at last. “I decided to come down here myself and get a look, maybe try to clear a few things up, if you’re thinking what I suspect you _might_ be.” The man pressed his lips together with audacity, as if _Sherlock_ was the one trying to scam his ‘friend Nathan.’ It wasn’t actually a bad angle of approach, from Garrideb’s perspective, for what might or might not be a confrontation.

In lieu of reply, Sherlock instead glanced over at Watson and held out his hand. She rolled her eyes slightly, but reached back towards Sherlock’s desk and presented him a manila folder with a bit of a flourish. He in turn handed the supposed Kansan the folder and leaned back pointedly .

“You are, of course, the Mr. John Garrideb mentioned in this document. If you’ll indulge me a moment, please feel free to look over the email correspondence that Nathan and I have engaged in regarding the legacy of a certain Alexander Hamilton Garrideb, and yourself, of course.”

The man pursed his lips and finally opened the folder in his lap, and remarkably, a pleased expression crossed his face. Then he glanced up sharply, at Watson this time.

“Care to introduce me to this lovely lady sitting here with us?”

“ _Just go with it_ ,” Sherlock said quickly in Mandarin, before answering Garrideb’s query.

“Ah, this would be _my_ consultant, the esteemed and quite capable Yun Jingyi. Please be assured-”

“You can call me Miss Watson,” Joan interrupted suddenly in English, much to Sherlock’s irritation. _So much for going with it_ , he thought in exasperation. _I suppose I’ll just have to test the accent._

“The esteemed _Miss Watson_ ,” he continued tightly, “is just as reliable as myself in regard to discretion and ability, so do not concern yourself on that count with her presence.”

“Delighted, ma’am,” Garrideb nodded politely. “Well, I can see here that you’re on board to try and find a third Garrideb for me and Nathan there. I suppose four heads are better than one when you’re looking for a needle in a haystack.” He sighed, then continued.

“Old Hammy, well, he was an eccentric old bastard, but I took a liking to him all the same. You see, he was the one who came into our office in Lawrence one day, wanting some helps with the forms to have all his assets converted to something he could leave to charity, like. Then he saw my name plaque on my desk, and hoo boy! You’d a thought he won the lottery or something, but the coot was already rich! Real estate, some soybean fields, stuff like that."

"He thought he was the last and only Garrideb left in the U.S.; even hired a PI like yourself to try and find out if he had any family his people might’ve lost track of over the years. Came over from England after the second world war, y’see, and most all his folks died off pretty quick. Something about a heart defect running on the dad’s side, I wasn’t too sure. Not like I’m a doctor!”

He smiled wryly, shrugged. “Nope, I’m just a middle of the road paralegal, though I suppose I’ve got enough certifications to open up on my own if I wanted, but here’s the kicker. This old guy, right, we really hit it off, invited me round his place for some beers, watch the game, all that kinda stuff. My folks...well, we were never all that close, and...guess that doesn’t matter now.

“But after we’d been hanging out a while, get this. This old guy says to me that us having that same name, Garrideb, was like fate. Said if I could find two other guys named Garrideb, he’d leave it all, some fifteen million or so, to us, split three ways to share.”

Joan cleared her throat, and Sherlock glanced at her curiously.

“Do they have to be guys? Men, I mean? Was that part of the contract? He passed away; so what is it, a will?” Joan tilted her head at him.

Garrideb rubbed his chin and grinned uncomfortably. “Well, yeah as it turns out, that’s the way it’s worded. Men named Garrideb, at least two others to split it with: five million apiece. It’s real specific,” he finished, and licked his lips. “And yeah, it’s a will. Old Hammy died this year, about April, and I’ve been looking ever since...sometimes I really miss that old budger, but I suppose he did me a good turn, or at least, he will have, now I’ve got you and uh, Miss _Watson_ on the case.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the piggish fellow and considered. “Do you perhaps need the facilities, Mr. Garrideb?” he asked shortly.

Garrideb blinked in surprise. “The-what? You mean the toilet?” _Tah-lit_ , it sounded like. It would appear the fellow had studied the accent he’d need to mimic quite thoroughly, but there were still nuances to be mined. Plenty of ways for the supposed Kansan to slip up. “No, why would you-”

“I merely considered you might want to compose yourself a moment,” Sherlock demurred. “If not, then perhaps you’d care to visit my apiary on the floor above this one? I myself find the buzzing of the hives quite soothing when I’ve been overcome by emotions of a nostalgic nature.”

Garrideb stared a moment. “You’ve got _bees_ on the _roof_?”

He pronounced it _ruff_ , of course, like a true Kansan would; even one raised in Wichita, the least-accented region. Sherlock looked down a moment, rubbed his thumbnail over his stubbled upper lip to conceal his irritation before replying. The man’s accent was watertight, it seemed.

“I had assumed that you’d have accustomed yourself to the habits of eccentrics over the course of your acquaintance with _Old Hammy_ , to use your delightful appellation, nor would I discount our mutual friend Nathan Garrideb from that particular category. After all, what is one small apiary to nine hundred and sixty seven fully articulated avian skeletons? Or being so obsessed with the uniqueness of one’s own name that the disposal of all of his earthly possessions hinges on like finding like? Incidentally, last time I checked I was the only Sherlock Holmes to exist as a matter of record in at least 17 nations- although I must confess the possibility never intrigued me as it did your dearly departed namesake.” Sherlock smiled long enough for Garrideb to shut his mouth, which had been hanging a bit agape. “Well, Watson, does the case indeed pique your interest, as I suggested?”

Joan made a noncommittal noise and addressed Garrideb instead.

“I like the bees on the roof, too. You know: far above the distant humming of the busy town, reared against the dome of heaven, looks she proudly down!”

She smiled expectantly, but Garrideb just looked mildly perplexed, and Sherlock was hard pressed not to join him. It sounded like some sort of poem, but nothing he could place offhand...cummings, maybe? But Joan was smiling thoughtfully, and she continued as if nothing had happened.

“Did you ever try starting up, I don’t know, some kind of website? Reaching out on social media?” Watson inquired.

“Now, now, Miss Watson,” he answered, shaking his head. “All I’d get that way is a bunch of scammers, grifters, and probably the same kinda internet weirdos who always show up whenever more than one person talks to another online. And the rest would all probably think _I_ was trying to scam _them_ , and could you really blame em?”

He sighed, his expression artfully open. “No, I guess when it comes down to it, old Nathan really had the right idea. What we need are specialists. Experts at finding needles in haystacks, the real deal, not just anyone willing to change their name and fudge the paperwork to try and get a chance at five million bucks.”

“Dear me!” Sherlock exclaimed dryly. “Well, I can assure you we’ll certainly be looking into it, and we have plans to visit Nathan ourselves later in the day for further inquiries. Have we assuaged your doubts as to our intentions sufficiently, Mr. Garrideb?”

Garrideb read his tone as intended, and got spryly to his feet. “Well, I gotta say I feel a lot better about our chances now that we’ve got you on the search for the third Garrideb, Mr. Holmes,” he replied with sanguine energy. He held out his hand once more, ignoring the fact that Sherlock had already rejected it once, but Joan rose as well and took it into hers politely.

“Thank you so much for coming in, Mr. Garrideb,” she said, smiling kindly. “I’ll walk you out.”

Sherlock plopped himself down irksomely into the chair he’d only just vacated, and rubbed at the back of his head in irritation. He could divine no more of the man’s motives than he’d had before the visit, and that was, well, unlike him. Was he too distracted, perhaps, by Watson’s presence? Had he missed something that should have been obvious? Trying to trip up an accent that might’ve been fake was perhaps too obvious a ploy for an experienced grifter, but after his gambit with Watson hadn’t-

“What the hell was _that_ supposed to be, Sherlock?” Joan barked irritably, shutting the office door behind her.

Sherlock looked up at her. “Which _that_?”

“Whatever kind of dragon lady bullshit you were trying to pull on him,” she replied, eyes flashing. “Yun Jingyi? The only person who calls me by my Chinese name is my mom, and you know that. What, was I supposed to act like I didn’t speak English?”

Sherlock stood slowly, chagrin washing over him and heating his face uncomfortably.

“My apologies, Watson,” he whispered slowly. “I realize now I should have discussed this with you beforehand.”

“Yeah, you should have,” she exhaled vituperatively. “Just, well. Don’t do it again. And maybe tell me what you were getting at, instead of just expecting me to go along with whatever you feel like doing. I mean...” she trailed off, and her eyes went a little unfocused, looking through him. “I know we’ve been apart for a little while, but did you really just sort of forget how to work with other people? How to work with _me_?”

Sherlock cursed himself again, feeling slightly desperate. He stepped closer to her, noticing the added height the heels gave her, and she looked at his face again. She met his eyes, and he dropped his gaze. As hesitantly as if two live wires were about to make contact, he touched her hand with his, wrapped his fingers around hers lightly.

“It has been...difficult to adjust to being alone here, as you know,” he began, then cleared his throat. “Without _you_ here,” he amended. “I am accustomed now neither to working alone, nor in company. Any gap in our rapport is my fault. Again, you have my apologies for any offence I have offered, and for any stress it may have caused you.”

Sherlock’s eyes were drawn back to Joan’s sweet face, and he saw that her gaze rested somewhere in the vicinity of his second shirt button, her hair dark like wings framing her vulpine features. He took in the careful blankness of expression that so often covered doubt, pain, yearning, and sadness alike. Over the years, Joan had responded to her own stresses and traumas not by acting out as he himself had, but rather by closing herself off in many ways to almost everyone, even Sherlock. His attempts to get her to open up, share her myriad griefs, or even tell him why she had been crying alone again, were almost always met with shutdowns.

And now, the additional barrier of the Atlantic lay between them. His insight was stymied by no longer sharing a living space with her. Within the confines of the brownstone, where each corner was awake to his senses, her daily routines and rituals, her general health and wellbeing could be ascertained to a reliable degree. Now he must rely on self-reported data, which while not without its merits, could never be as precise as knowing the last meal she’d eaten, whether she had spoken with her mother recently, or what time she took a shower. The haptic information he managed to glean from video calls showing her idiosyncratic tells were a pittance compared to the wealth of cohabitation.

Awareness that he was getting a taste of his own medicine, in the sense that Joan had certainly put up with a lot of avoidance and deflection from him in the early days of their partnership, was often what kept him from pushing her more than he did. But more truthfully, she had always been this way; even when she’d pushed him to initiate relationships and share himself with others, she had always been positively squirrely when it came to taking her own advice.

Even now, rather than verbally acknowledging his apology, she simply gave his hand a squeeze (!) and returned to sit in the chair she’s vacated earlier.

“Care to explain what you _were_ trying to do, then?” she asked archly.

Sherlock licked his lips, which had grown a little dry from both the embarrassment of confrontation and the brief physical contact, then joined her in their parallel seating arrangement. He missed the brownstone keenly; years of habit almost ran both of them on tracks in regard to physical and spatial orientation, existing alongside rather than toward each other. In a new space, it shouldn’t have been awkward and yet he’d almost managed to steamroller her in the hall this morning, towel-clad from his early morning shower.

“I simply hoped that your presence would cause him to let his guard down, since I strongly suspect him to be a Britisher rather than the Kansas native he purports to be. His clothing is both more expensive and more worn than one newly arrived from the states would own-a second errand of observation I conducted during the purchase of your current raiment,” he glanced sidelong at her and his mouth quirked as he was reminded how handsomely it suited. “All of his clothes were purchased at minimum fourteen months ago from British specialty stores and boutiques; none American-made. He’s been here much longer than he claims. I’d also hoped to puncture the faithfulness of his accent. However, to the practiced ear it would seem his speech is that of a native Kansan in all salient ways,” he finished, sighing regretfully.

Joan smirked at him. “There’s _no way_ that guy’s from Lawrence, Kansas.” she stated definitively.

Sherlock blinked in confusion, then chided himself silently for failing to consider that Joan had the knack for seeing everything he missed. Joined in tandem pursuit and at peak coordination, they were nigh-omniscient.

“Explain.”

Joan smiled, appropriately satisfied with herself. “Liam’s dad was really from Lawrence, Kansas. Those lines I fed Garrideb were lifted from the Rock Chalk Chant,” she informed him. At his blank look, she elaborated. “Lawrence is a college town, and that means college _sports_. It’s like they’re genetically programmed to love the Jayhawks there, and even if they don’t, there’s _no way_ anyone from Lawrence wouldn’t know the words to all of the fight songs and chants. It’s the University of Kansas… I visited their Museum of Natural History once; you’d love it. They have a Bee Tree and a live Bee Cam, if you ever want to look it up.”

Sherlock had already pulled his phone out and started researching before he’d sat down, but it would appear the Bee Cam feed was offline for the nonce. Instead, he muttered, “I prefer my own bees for meditative purposes,” then sighed. The Jayhawks logo was especially odious in hue and artistically mediocre, incontrovertible evidence of the team’s popularity. Everything Joan had said checked out, and having met diverse Americans in his time living in its most populous city, he didn’t doubt her assertion about the regional ubiquity of what might have been considered esoteric sports knowledge.

“Even given that we can move forward with the assumption that Garrideb is not what he claims, I confess I have no clearer concept of what our supposed Garrideb is up to in truth, nor how he intends to part Nathan from his money.”

Joan nodded. “Who do you have keeping an eye out?”

Sherlock quirked a small smile at her. “Owens, a young person who works several corners between Baker street and Nathan’s neighborhood. They’ve proved relatively reliable in the last six weeks in limited capacity, so I’d thought this would be a good test of their focus for a more prolonged assignment.” Sherlock pressed his lips together a moment. “Feeling up for a jaunt?”

“You know, I am, actually.” Joan smiled, seeming as if her spirits had lifted despite their lack of real progress.

Sherlock thumbed open his contacts, tapped twice, and held the phone to his ear. After a considerable time Nathan finally answered, sounding surprised.

“Holmes!” the tinny, elderly voice intoned. “How goes the search?”

“Slowly,” he barked. “You recall I’ve had a houseguest arrive? I’m sure you’ll agree seeing to her comforts takes precedence over doubling the fortune of a certain musty scarecrow of my acquaintance.”

A phlegmy laugh greeted his jibe. “I’ve reconsidered. I might be willing to part with my spare _Raphus cucullatus_ , provided you plan to bring her with you at our appointment later this afternoon.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What of the missing phalanges?”

“On your own, I’m afraid,” Nathan coughed absently. “But you’ve ascertained yourself this is no composite; Lavinia is all her own bird. No substitutes,” he elaborated lasciviously, if unnecessarily.

Sherlock sighed. He knew Nathan would never willingly part with the world’s only complete and contiguous Dodo-bird skeleton, but Sherlock had coveted the second near-complete one Nathan Garrideb had purchased in auction in 2016, valued at £346,300, since he’d learned of it. It would liven up Mycroft’s hideous minimalist hutch considerably, once the shelving had been removed. He had to justify his inexplicable attachment to the godawful furnishing somehow.

“You’re in luck, old goat,” Sherlock reported smugly. “She’s just agreed to flout the clutches of jet lag to accompany me on my errands. Which include repast during our travels, so there’s no need to procrastinate the naptimes which I assume must punctuate the schedule of one so advanced into his second childhood.”

“Can’t wait to meet the one that got away,” Nathan replied snidely, then hung up.

“Why do you like the cat that got the cream?” Joan observed, amusement rearranging her features in a comely fashion. “Are you being paid in fingers?”

“Everything _but_ , in fact,” Sherlock replied shortly.

“You told your friends about me?” Joan mused as she rose to her feet and prepared to venture forth with him.

Sherlock stood as well, but paused a for a thoughtful moment.

“A man returning home missing an arm might choose to supply explanation for its absence to some, while taking offence at being questioned on the same topic from others,” he considered. “A third category might be those who care little for the possibility of being considered rude, yet their questions hold no malice and therefore do not provoke, as some might. Nathan could hardly be considered a bosom friend of mine; more that had he been a man of differing predilection, he might well have made a deductionist of himself. As my loss was obvious and his intentions neutral, I chose to answer his inquiry honestly. He’s been quite keen to meet you, since,” Sherlock punctuated his explanation with a slow nod.

Watson’s face had grown inexplicably soft, and her eyes shone suspiciously. Neither of them had forgotten what he’d said his last night in the brownstone; it hung humming in the air between them every time their eyes met. Apparently Joan had yet to come to terms with it, falling victim once again to her insistence on making things more complicated than need be. Anything she wanted from him, she had only to help herself; anything she _needed_ from him would be delivered regardless. It had always been so, and would continue until her death. After all, he’d made it clear that his provisions for her benefit would continue after his own demise, both in the ways he’d informed her, as well as others he’d arranged that she probably didn’t suspect. Others she might not realize were possible.

She swallowed reflexively, unable to tear her eyes away from his, and tried to frown.

Sherlock supposed a change of subject was in order to preserve her comfort-his commitment to which he’d already professed in her hearing mere minutes ago. He seized the doorknob abruptly and pulled the door to his office open, practically clacking his heels in anticipation as he stepped to the side.

“What are your feelings in regard to salt-beef sandwiches?” Sherlock inquired with raised eyebrows as he gestured her through with a flourish.

 


	3. Three is a Crowd

Watson took a massive bite from her salt-beef sandwich, chewed thoughtfully.

“It’s basically a Ruben without the kraut, right?”

Sherlock shot a frown at her. “It’s on a bagel.”

“This is supposed to be a _bagel_? It’s really soft.”

Sherlock pointed wordlessly to the white and blue sign affixed to the shop they’d recently exited, before seating themselves on two chairs on either side of a third that looked to be intended for interior use.

Joan shrugged. “Well, it’s really good, whatever it is. Are we lingering here for a reason?”

Sherlock sat upright, knees akimbo and eyes idly combing groups of people who walked the narrow street on which the hole-in-the-wall bagel shop was situated. He had often stopped in himself since the food was cheap, inoffensive, and always exactly the same. It was open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Or, at least he used to years ago when his work brought him this way; he’d forget it existed for months at a time, then upon remembering, eat salt beef sandwiches for every meal until he realized how constipated and dehydrated he was. Cohabiting with Watson had ameliorated more than one of his bad habits over the years-at least after she’d pointed out that he’d been eating almost nothing but enormous bowls of scrambled eggs or breakfast cereal the first year they’d lived together, unless one of them ordered takeaway.

“Rendezvous with Owens,” he mumbled, squinting into the diluted sunlight that darted over the buildings and between the cars filling the air with their metallic stench. A woman who had seemingly bathed in rubbing alcohol and imitation gardenias walked past, and Sherlock grimaced at the last bite of his own sandwich before tossing it into the gutter.

“Sherlock! I would have finished that for you,” Watson chided as she licked her fingers and wiped them on a napkin, before getting up to toss her rubbish into a bin nearby. The street could honestly have used quite a few more of them; food wrappers and plastic bags blew about under the wheels of passing cabs, got caught in the spokes of the occasional bicycle racing past at breakneck speed.

Sherlock grimaced with relief as Owens’ curly magenta hair, smashed asymmetrically oval under a ridiculous yet becoming beret, became visible as they turned the north corner at the leather shop and flounced down toward them. Before Sherlock had a chance to speak, a grin split Owens’ broad, tawny face as they asked, “This your _lady_ , then, Holmes?”

Sherlock remembered he was wearing sunglasses, took them off and tucked them into his pocket as he gestured to Watson. “Owens, this is _m_ _a_ _m_ _eillieure_ _a_ _mie_ and detective, Watson. Watson, Owens.” He gestured to the chair they’d reserved between them. “Rest yourself, and report.”

Owens, clad in worn, baggy jeans, a black t-shirt that had been vertically slit a few inches down from the collar, a flannel overshirt, and wielding an overstuffed messenger bag, plopped themself down comfortably between them. Without preamble they launched into a decently detailed report of the man supposedly named John Garrideb’s comings and goings through the late morning and early afternoon. The man apparently knew his way around the city well enough, maybe enough to be suspicious, but Holmes might have to tail Garrideb himself to make that determination. Not much of note otherwise, and as far as Owens could tell, he had returned an hour ago to the hotel room he’d been staying in since Sherlock had become aware of his existence.

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction and discreetly passed a wad of bills to his gregarious informant. They took the cash with a smile and made it disappear somewhere inside the neck of their shirt.

“Will you be available tomorrow, at this time?” he asked politely.

Owens winked. “You’ll just have to text me and find out, won’t you?”

They smiled, then their fingers wandered over Sherlock’s thigh inquisitively. “Got anything else for me today?”

Sherlock smiled kindly into a face that could be no more than 25 years of age and probably wasn’t. He discreetly picked their pocket as he shook his head once slightly, ignoring the hand on his leg. Owens shrugged without resentment, and failed to notice that the phone Sherlock had begun poking at was actually their own as they turned toward Watson to repeat the offer. By the time Joan managed to stutter a polite if slightly embarrassed refusal, Sherlock had the contact list open and added a new one as Owens sighed, and got to their feet a little laboriously for one so young.

“I’ll be in touch, then. Have a good one-don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“Owens.” Sherlock held the phone out as they turned to go.

“Wh-hey! Is that _m_ _ine_? You mugging honest businessfolk in the streets now, Holmes?” Owens grabbed at the phone, but Sherlock didn’t release it right away.

“I’ve put the number of a friend of mine, Elena, into your contacts. If you’re looking for better work, she’ll set you up with a room and dates, or a room and a cam, if you prefer. Twenty-five percent off the top, but there’s security after seven pm and you have full veto. Tell her I sent you, and double your prices. Or don’t, it’s up to you.”

Owens gave him a hard look as he released the phone, but it melted a bit as they looked at their reflection in its locked screen before tucking it back into their pocket. Owens gave both of them a nod, shook themself, and sauntered back the way they had come.

Joan looked over at Sherlock curiously. “Owens seems...interesting,” she said wryly.

Sherlock rubbed his chin, dipped two fingers into his jacket pocket for his sunglasses and shook them out. The view through their lenses washed out Watson’s lovely warm complexion, but they made the light outdoors, and somehow the _noise_ of it all, more tolerable.

“Not as interesting as they might be without the omnipresent onus of trying to make a paycheque in library toilets and unattended stairwells,” he pointed out, then stood. Joan joined him without further comment. Her attitudes toward the oldest profession had softened considerably during the years of their acquaintance. Sherlock considered it must have been in part to do with familiarity eventually breeding respect rather than contempt.

“Over to the original Garrideb’s place now?” Watson asked as she brushed a few bagel crumbs from her dark green and navy plaid coat.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed.

He lifted his arm to hail a cab (having left his whistle behind for good some time back, although he resented it still) and thought sadly of Athena as he and Watson waited for the driver to find a place to pull over in the crowded near-alley that was Brick Lane. He still found it incredibly flattering she’d even been willing to entertain his bid to transition from customer to potential paramour at all; most in her line of work and at her level wouldn’t have considered it. Their correspondence remained cordial if infrequent, but Sherlock supposed that fleeing the country after admitting to a murder could add its rime of frost to any budding relationship. The complications geographical distance introduced took care of the rest.

Watson placed a foot wrongly whilst stepping from the kerb, and Sherlock’s hand was under her elbow in an instant to steady her.

“Your pardon,” he murmured absently, then opened the door to the cab and gestured her inside. His lips quirked a bit as she slid across the seat to allow his ingress, rather than making him walk around the cab to enter from the trafficmost door. He found himself silently grateful that their rhythms for navigating public spaces had not hiccuped in the least through lack of practice; their awareness of each other seemed magnified rather than diminished. His heart lifted as he closed the cab door behind him, cutting off the clamor and incessant droughts of wind outside. The relatively quiet if stale-smelling interior was transformed into a veritable haven by Watson’s steady presence beside him.

“136 Little Ryder Street, please,” Sherlock requested, leaning forward towards the partition, then settled back for what might be a drive of twenty minutes or more. The driver, a tired-looking young Sikh man with photos of a woman and small children lining his dashboard, nodded silently and pulled out into the traffic.

“So, what’s Nathan like?” Watson commented idly, her eyes lively as she took in the relatively unremarkable urban scenery with what seemed sincere interest. “Should I be worried?”

“Former senior curator of paleornithological specimens at the Museum of Natural History, and a functioning agoraphobe even previous to retirement. His transition to complete shut-in was expedited by his husband’s death,” Sherlock replied. “I’m not entirely sure he’s managed to exit the door of his residence since he moved into it seven years ago, but seems not to have blunted the edge of his tongue.”

Watson frowned at him. “Is that your way of saying he’s a jerk?”

“More of a calculated busybody, really,” Sherlock clarified, shrugging. “With a habit of speaking truths others would rather he didn’t, as a deflection to avoid opening himself to interrogation from others as to his own struggles or wellbeing, as the case may be.” _A bit like yourself, Watson_ , he added silently, but she glanced at him a little suspiciously nonetheless.

Nathan’s building was a large, old-fashioned, Early Georgian edifice, with a flat brick face broken only by two deep bay windows at the base of the building. Nathan lived on the ground floor to save his arthritic knees, and the low windows were situated in the front of the huge room in which he spent his waking hours. Sherlock paid the cabbie and added a considerable tip, walking briskly away before the exhausted young man could process the amount. He slowed to match Watson’s pace as she approached the building slowly, admiring the landscaping in keeping with the old-fashioned ambience of the place.

The house had a common stair, and mailboxes embossed with the names of individuals and companies lined the hall, some indicating offices and some private residences. Sherlock indulged a moment of whimsy and pointed out the small brass plate which bore the curious name as they approached the door.

“It’s _his_ real name, anyhow, and that is something to note.”

It was not an apartment building per se, but rather a den of various craftspeople, obsessives, artists, and eccentrics. Watson winced as someone upstairs began to play a concertina very suddenly, and from the sound of it, just as abruptly stopped and threw the instrument to the ground in frustration.

“Just as well Nathan’s grown a bit hard of hearing in the last decade or so,” Sherlock explained as they came to a stop in front of one of the doors, upon which he knocked forcefully before ringing the doorbell several times, just to hedge his bets.

Mr. Nathan Garrideb was a very tall, loose-jointed, round-backed person, gaunt and bald at seventy-four years of age. He had a long, thin face, with the pale skin of a man to whom the outdoors was anathema. Large round spectacles and a small projecting goat’s beard combined with his stooping attitude to give him an expression of piercing curiosity; his general affect, however, was amiably eccentric as he pulled the door open with his left hand, the right being occupied by a chamois polishing cloth.

“Sherlock! And Dr. Watson, I presume? Come in, both of you.” The true Garrideb turned his back on them without waiting for an answer or offering to shake hands, leaving them to close it behind them as they ventured into the elderly academic’s cluttered abode.

The room was as curious as its occupant; it had the aspect of finding a squatter’s camp in a small museum. It was both broad and deep, crowded with cupboards and cabinets. Cases of carefully assembled and articulated skeletons flanked each side of the entrance . A large table close to the far wall was littered with boxes of bones in the midst of reconstruction or analysis as well as dirty dishes and bits of paper , while the tall brass tube of a n antique microscope bristled up among them.

Garrideb walked back slowly to the table and picked up a tiny bone to finish rubbing it with the chamois .

The solid wingbone of the _Machaeropterus deliciosus_ ,” he explained, holding it up. “Unique among avians. The solidity of the bone evolved in order to withstand the repeated beating of its wings together during its additionally unique mating practice of stridulation, in which its plays its own feather s like a violin to attract mates.” He blinked, as if suddenly remembering his manners, and held the tiny bit out to them with an absent half-smile. “A violin being played at 1,400 beats per second. Enchanting music, that.”

Sherlock plucked the proffered bone from the elderly man’s surprisingly steady fingers, exploring its osseous texture eagerly. Something Sherlock had always appreciated about the fellow was the opportunity to add to his dossier of facts whenever he visited, regardless of reason.

“You will find a chair underneath, over there, Dr. Watson–if you would have the goodness to put the catch-all box to one side. You see my little interests in life. My doctor lectures me about never going out, but why should I when I have so much to hold me here? The cataloguing of one of those cabinets would take me three good months, and I’m just as glad they won’t be plagued with errands and other intolerable trivia.”

“You never go out of your apartment, Mr. Garrideb?” Watson inquired.

Nathan took the wingbone back from Sherlock, then set it down to drag another chair out from under its pile of clutter.

“I hire a cab down to Sotheby’s or Christie’s if and when something that takes my fancy comes to auction, and if my wallet can handle the damages. My needs are few, my health is poor, and my researches are very absorbing. But the matter of John Garrideb has become a distraction. It’s more agreeable to me to foist the whole matter off to you, Holmes.” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses in the manner of a man unaccustomed to being observed. “And the inestimable Ms Watson, of course.” He winked at her, but it wasn’t salacious in the least.

“In that I think you acted very wisely indeed,” Sherlock replied. “Do you find that boorish man’s proposal all that appealing in the first place? It would appear a great deal of the supposed fortune is tied up in overseas real estate.”

Nathan finally unearthed a third chair and seated himself with a sigh. “He has offered to buy me out, if it came to that.” The elderly man pursed his lips worriedly. “While the puzzle of the shared name and its etymological or genealogical origins would otherwise be interesting, I find myself doubting this story of an inheritance. If he’d done his research and only wanted to get close to me, he might have been better to leave off that bit and just appeal on an academic basis . His contacting me at all I find disturbing enough; my concern is that if I fail to play along, he may resort to more violent means to acquire what he seeks .”

Watson leaned forward, observing Nathan keenly.

“Mr Garrideb, I’ve read the emails between you and Sherlock, but I was wondering if you could clarify a few things for me. The man calling himself John Garrideb came over to our place this morning, and while I’m not sure _who_ he is exactly, I don’t think he’s who he claims to be. When did he first contact you?”

Garrideb nodded thoughtfully. “He called last Tuesday.” 

“You told him you’d hired a detective to look into this?”

“Indeed. He seemed to have a real bee in his bonnet over it.” “He was angry you brought us in to consult? Did that change after he came to see us?” 

“He called me a little while ago and seemed excited at the prospect of help finding the third Garrideb, at least. He didn’t seem angry anymore.”

“Has he suggested you do something in particular, or asked for any money from you?” 

“No, and not a penny.”

Watson pressed her lips together and looked around the place.

“Are any of these specimens especially valuable?”

Nathan sighed, but smiled fondly. “It is a good collection, but not a very valuable one, other than the few endangered or extinct birds. Those range from absolutely unsalable to those that would require years’ worth of perfectly forged documents, which even then might be undone with a single phone call. An artifact without provenance is no artifact at all, financially speaking.”

“Have you been robbed, or has anyone broken in since you’ve lived here?”

Nathan just laughed and shook his head.

“How long have you been in these rooms?”

“Nearly eight years.”

Watson rubbed her fingers across her lips thoughtfully for a long moment. Sherlock was content to observe her in the course of doing their work as he reflected on the questions and their answers, with satisfaction akin to watching a finely constructed and well-oiled machine tick away at the purpose for which it was intended.

Joan Watson, consulting detective, was the apotheosis of the intrepid girl who had acquired encyclopedic knowledge of organized crime through self-directed interest, the young woman with the skill and dedication required to complete medical school and become a surgeon, and the mature soul with the sensitivity to usher dozens of broken people onto a path of healing. Sherlock no longer harbored suspicions that Joan would one day abandon their work; he still thought of it as _their_ work, even though they had been performing it on separate continents for the past few months . His heart ached with the reminder that after this all too brief interlude, they would be separated once again.

“You said you might have been more interested if he’d just been someone with the same name as you,” Watson mused. “Can you tell me a little more about that?”

Nathan smiled warmly. “I’ve always found the act of naming to be fascinating. Not merely the process, but the way the habit functions socially, _psychologically_. The names of species, names of people, buildings, bridges, cities. We name stars that no one could possibly reach in our lifetimes. Naming something tends to anthropomorphize it, lends a sense of personality to objects and colors our interactions with them. Biologists even have the habit of naming newly formed or discovered species after those dear to them, as I’m sure you’re well aware, _Watsonia_.”

Joan and Sherlock shared a warm glance for a long moment; perhaps a little too long, since Nathan was smiling at them knowingly .

“Nathan professes himself a devotee of my monographs,” Sherlock commented dryly.

“We even name the types of relationships we have with each other-and some cultures have relationships and names for them that others don’t,” Nathan continued as if no one had said anything. “We use words like romantic, platonic, erotic, boyfriend, husband, girlfriend, wife, best friend… _partner_ . Those are the most vague names of all, aren’t they? When someone uses a term, we might _think_ we know what that relationship entails, but we’re so often wrong I wonder if they might be collections of exceptions rather than rules. Are they reflections of our own expectations in the relationship? Do they match that of society as whole? ”

Joan put her hand on her knees and looked wryly over at Sherlock. “I think I’ve got an idea of what you meant by busybody, now,” she commented quietly as she stood. “Mr Garrideb, would you mind if we took a look around? I just want to make sure there isn’t anything that might have been missed before that could give us some insight into what this man might want with you.”

Sherlock admired Joan’s way of ending a conversation she didn’t want to be having by utterly refusing to participate, although she must have liked the old man well enough. I t was merely another way he and she were essentially alike.

Garrideb just nodded amiably at the change of topic. “You’re welcome to snoop around as much as you’d like.”

In the end, they took a look around but as far as they could John Garrideb wasn’t planning on stealing any fossilized skeletons, taxidermied birds, or the few extraneous specimens of lizards and such that were included in Nathan’s collection. They bid him a polite farewell, and assured him they’d call to apprise him of any further developments or discoveries.

On the cab ride home, Watson seemed slightly subdued, and appeared to be using the downtime to check her Facebook notifications. Sherlock found himself texting several contacts about the Garridebs while most of his mental space was taken up with thinking about all the things he _hadn’t_ asked Watson in the long weeks they’d been relegated to phone calls, texts and video chats. It had been frustrating at first, not only because of the limited format of their conversations, but because provoking her lost its appeal when she could utterly abort any conversation with the push of a button. In the brownstone, even if she stalked away from him he could glean information from her habits, her sounds, he mutterings and slammed doors; he harbored no doubts that she do much the same to him. She’d expressed resentment over his omnipresent acuity before; he wondered if she still felt it. He wondered if she grieved the loss of their spatial and incidental intimacy as well.

They’d both gotten in the habit of doing what they could to allow some level of privacy for each other, and in those carefully curated spaces deception had crept in between them more than once. It was facilitated by mutual familiarity with their concepts of themselves and each other. It was often easy to allow Joan to believe he was more capable or in control of himself than he was; it was that misdirection which had allowed him to hide his medical condition from her for so long. Joan’s eternal secretiveness about her romantic, or perhaps better termed, _sexual_ life, and his relative respect of it, had allowed her to conceal many other activities that might have mimicked the existence of a paramour. Blackmailing one of his own father’s cronies and taking steps to adopt a child among them.

He’d wanted to tell her. How no matter how utterly dumbfounded he’d been by discovering the steps she’d taken toward parenthood, he’d found himself caught up in the idea. How planning had necessitated envisioning, and envisioning had led to imagining what might have been.

Sherlock glanced over at Joan’s closed expression, variably underlit as she scrolled through her feed, the shadows outside at their longest before the sun reached its denouement. He wanted to tell her that her dreams had become his as well, before Michael Rowan and Hannah Gregson had shattered the life they had shared, their hopes and aspirations for themselves and each other. To tell her how good and right it had felt to think of her as a parent, and to ask her why she hadn’t mentioned her plans for adoption to him again since he’d come to London. After all, his absence could only have only helped her chances.

The cab driver met his eyes in the rearview mirror as he finally tore his gaze from Watson’s almost-frown, and winked. Sherlock scowled at him in response, feeling his stomach turn a bit.

Sherlock considered that for certain conversations, three was a crowd.

***

“You know, I’m not a hundred percent on what ever Nathan was getting at, but I think he was right about a few things, at least,” Joan mused as they tucked into the containers of Sichuan style food they’d had delivered later that evening.

Sherlock had contacted Mason to try and hunt down online traces of the false Garrideb’s identity, and he and Joan had retired to the sitting room with their laptops to see what they could discover on their own. Sherlock had spent a fruitless hour searching for experienced or notorious forgers and counterfeiters, and another for anyone connected to paleornitholoy that might have been the man calling himself Garrideb. H e had been relieved when the food arrived for the change of pace.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in passive invitation to continue as he shoveled lo mein into his mouth.

“About how the words we use for relationships don’t always tell us much about the people in them, or what their relationship is really like,” Joan elaborated. “I mean, how many cheating or outright murdering spouses have we interviewed? Just because you’re with someone, might not mean you love them, or sometimes even like them. I’ve heard people talk about romance, but the way they describe it makes it sound more like they have a stomachache. Relationships aren’t always what we expect them to be,” she added almost sourly. “On the other hand, there’s you and your _friends_ ,” and he could hear the italics in her voice.

“I did not invent the concept of sexual friendship, Watson,” he pointed out.

Joan seemed to warm to her subject and set down her food so she could gesture with her upturned, open hands . “It seems like almost all those words he was talking about, people just use as shorthand for the presence or absence of _sex_ .” She sighed. “Maybe you’ve got the right idea, just introducing people like, ‘this is Agatha, a person I have sex with.’ It seems like that’s all anyone wants to know anyways.”

“Perhaps it is merely my rejection of the notion that sexual activity alone creates a specific set of mutual obligations that irks you,” Sherlock said, picking up a formerly-lidded plastic bowl full of rice.

Joan wrinkled her nose. “At least ‘spouse’ describes a legal relationship, it’s tangible. It affects how things happen, you know?” She picked her food back up, amused for a moment. “Like when you told those EMTs you were my husband.”

Sherlock hadn’t realized she’d remembered that bit, especially considering she’d had a concussion at the time. But when he’d discovered her beaten bloody in the doorway of their home, courtesy of Michael Rowan, he’d not only told the emergency workers he was her husband, he’d held her in his arms until they arrived, gently but urgently questioning her as his hand stroked her upper arm reassuringly. He wasn’t entirely sure for _whose_ reassurance, but he’d had absolutely no qualms telling lies that allowed him to remain unquestioned by her side.

“You know, I think that was the only time _you’ve_ hugged _me_ ,” she added impishly, stuffing her mouth with her chopsticks.

Sherlock felt his eyebrows knotting together and stiffened in his chair. “I was supporting your upper body to prevent a punctured lung and ease your respiration. Taking the time to explain the complexities of our relationship would have been counterproductive to your prompt treatment.”

Joan turned her hand to rest the back of her wrist on her lips as she slouched forward, amusement crinkling her eyes as she finished her mouthful. She still wore her slacks, but she’d removed her vest, jacket, and tie, and her silk shirt was unbuttoned enough that a sliver of her white brassiere was visible. She seemed more relaxed and happy than she’d been the past three months, and it warmed his heart to see her so.

“The complexities of our relationship,” Watson echoed, poking at her food and shaking her head as she looked down into it. “I thought it was hard explaining before, but now it’s a million times worse. What _are_ we now, anyways?” She looked up at him, seeming less amused than she had a moment ago.

Sherlock abandoned his food, and rubbed the palms over his hands over his trouser legs as he returned her gaze, confused.

“Friends, confidants, colleagues-”

“Two people that love each other,” she interrupted, trying to bore a hole in his skull with her eyes. Sherlock just stared back at her, feeling vaguely offended.

“Are you _angry_ with me?” he accused, indignant.

“Maybe.” She dropped her eyes back to her food, then set it down and crossed her arms in front of her.

“I’ve been trying to find a way for you to come back,” she said quietly. “Ever since you left, I’ve been trying to figure out…something.”

“I’ve missed you as well,” Sherlock said, feeling an uncharacteristic stillness come over him. “I miss our home,” he continued, and swallowed a tightness in his throat. “But my actions were not intended to be reversible. There is nothing to be done.”

“So, what, I should just give up?” she hissed in reply. “You made your choice, and now we all just have to live with it, right ?”

His indignation returned, and he cut his eyes at her peevishly. “I would do it again, in a heartbeat. You would have spent the rest of your life _in prison_ , if you’d had your way of things.” He leaned forward jerkily, wiped at his nose. “Perhaps together, we could have found some other solution, if you hadn’t-”

“Given up,” Joan finished his sentence quietly, taking hold of two of the containers growing cold on the table and getting to her feet. She didn’t look at him. “You think I just gave up, that I didn’t care. That’s what you need to believe, so you can act like I’m the one who betrayed you.”

She walked out of the room and into the kitchen, but he picked up his own half-eaten meal and followed her. In silence and tandem, they closed containers and wrapped their leftovers in cling film, stowing them away carefully in his refrigerator. Domestic tedium always had seemed to blunt their sharpest edges, allowing them the space to become close without slicing each other to ribbons. Sherlock found himself in front of the kitchen sink, picking up a water glass he’d been using that morning and filling it at the tap. But he just stood there, staring into its reflective stainless steel surface. Her presence lingered behind him, steadying him despite her accusations. He rested his glass on the edge of the sink, but didn’t let it go.

“You assume I fail to understand the motivations for your actions,” he stated quietly into the pregnant silence. “Or rather, your failure to act.” He cleared his throat. “Is it so easy for you to believe despite all evidence and statements to the contrary, that I am so insensate and inflexible? Months of theoretical babyproofing, analyzing every aspect of our lives in preparation… I didn’t so much as set a glass on the counter without calculating the height at which a potential child could access it without harm, or be prevented from doing so.” Watson’s silence remained receptive, so he sighed and continued.

“Such ritualized thinking imbues one’s sense of protectiveness with the sacred, perhaps even renders one powerless to do otherwise, no matter its cost to self or others. Everything else falls away, leaving only that one shining purpose. How could you interfere, after spending so long building that fragile tower of hope within yourself? Entertaining the notion that you could be worthy of that trust, to usher a helpless, ignorant being into a world so fraught? Interfering with the captain’s plan to protect his daughter would have been worse for you than a lifetime in prison; it would have been a betrayal of the child who still existed only _in potentia_ . Unthinkable. And yet you not only believe I don’t understand that; you believe I _do not feel it_ .”

Sherlock put the glass to his lips and drank thirstily, desperately. It clinked as he set it back on the counter, and he tried to loosen his grip as the words poured from the wound holding them back for so long had inflicted.

“The truth would have been simple, uncomplicated. A murderer and a victim, nicely tied up in a bow. But a less comfortable truth also presented itself, that via either a burden of empathy or merely the transformative power habits hold over a recovering addict, I too felt powerless to interfere with Gregson’s plot . Those opposing truths narrowed my options considerably, and time constraints erased the rest. I could not bring myself to act against your wishes or in concert with them, nor could I deny that a part of me shared them. What I wanted for you had become... what I wanted for us.”

Sherlock steadied his voice with a concerted effort. “With you, Watson, I dream of the impossible.”

Sherlock turned back around, read and catalogued the expression on her face. He held his nearly-empty glass in his hand loosely, and prepared himself for one of her awkward hugs. Although he had to admit he’d come to appreciate the infrequent ritual the past few years, as a punctuation to conversations of import between them, and as a reminder that he would always make allowances for her. He remembered when he’d arrived back at the brownstone after his sabbatical in Vermont. The moment he’d seen her come up the stairs at his call, he’d held his arms out instinctively in anticipation, although he felt no impetus to do so now. He had no template for embraces neither combative nor erotic, and he’d never figured out what to do with his arms, but he supposed being hugged by Watson had become its own entity entire.

He held his arms slightly away from his sides as she approached, a little proud that she’d never figured out he was quite ticklish, but instead of putting her arms around his waist as he’d expected, she put her hands on his shoulders. She put pressure on them slightly, and he leaned forward, wondering what she was going to tell him and what she was on about. In fact, he drew a breath to ask exactly that, and Sherlock had never been less prepared for anything in his life than when she pressed her lips gently against his.

Her lips were warm and soft, redolent of the food she’d eaten. His breath had stopped, but muscle memory took over as the flat texture of her lip color and the taste that was somehow exactly equivalent to how she smelled under toiletries and perfumes filled his mouth, and his lips opened further at her prompt. The indescribable wet velvet of her tongue traced his lower lip hesitantly, her breath tickled his upper lip, and somewhere in another universe the sound of breaking glass filled his ears and a sharp pain stabbed his foot.

Suddenly, Watson’s face was three feet away from his, her fine features smudged with astonishment. Sherlock looked down and saw that the thin-blown glass he’d been holding had slipped from his fingers and shattered into several chunks on the hard parquet. One jagged shard had embedded itself in his left foot, near the heel. The breath he’d taken what felt like several hours before finally escaped from his lungs.

“My apologies,” he rasped hollowly, taking a step forward. “Allow me to-”

But Joan had already turned, ignoring the glass on the floor, and fled the kitchen. He heard her going up the stairs as he stood gawping, blood slowly but thoroughly saturating his sock.


End file.
